CHAPTER IX.
Pavel Pavlovitch had made himself very comfortable. He was sitting in the same chair as he had occupied yesterday, smoking a cigar, and had just poured the fourth and last tumbler of champagne out of the bottle.
The teapot and a half-emptied tumbler of tea stood on the table beside him; his red face beamed with benevolence. He had taken off his coat, and sat in his shirt sleeves.
“Forgive me, dearest of friends,” he cried, catching sight of Velchaninoff, and hastening to put on his coat, “I took it off to make myself thoroughly comfortable.”
Velchaninoff approached him menacingly.
“You are not quite tipsy yet, are you? Can you understand what is said to you?”
Paul Pavlovitch became a little confused.
“No, not quite. I've been thinking of the dear deceased a bit, but I'm not quite drunk yet.”
“Can you understand what I say?”
“My dear sir, I came here on purpose to understand you.”